


Wordplay

by gigi2690



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigi2690/pseuds/gigi2690
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was fitting she supposed. Two lovers of literature; one an author with the skill to found an entire genre on the wings of her boundless imagination, the other with an eidetic memory capable of remembering and reciting prose from a seemingly endless repertoire. It was fitting, then, that their love of language often took an active role in their sex life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Round One

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not copy or duplicate on other sites or mediums without my consent.

Myka's head slams back into the wall as Helena's mouth comes into contact with her sex. The dull thud scattering her already muddled thoughts... she is drunk on the wet heat driving into her centre with feigned idleness, on the ticklish grazing of hair along her inner thighs. Despite knowing it was coming, she still found herself whimpering in frustration as Helena stops circling her clit with that wickedly talented tongue.

"Uh-uh my love. You know the rules."

Myka tightens her fingers around the kneeling woman's inky locks, the resulting chuckle sending a puff of air across her sensitized sex. Swallowing thickly, another surge of lust runs through her as she looks down to meet the amused gaze of her lover; eyes dark with intent and an impish grin spread across lips glistening with her own arousal, Helena is far too devastating of a sight for Myka to possibly reclaim her train of thought.

"Where was I?" Helena doesn't answer right away, turning her head instead to lay open-mouthed kisses down her inner right thigh, and then up the left (stopping just short of where Myka wanted her most), before meeting her gaze again,

"Wholly to be a fool." Myka laughs breathlessly and traces the arch of one perfectly sculpted eyebrow with her thumb before closing her eyes again to the distracting sight of the naked goddess settled between her thighs,

"While spring is in the world," Helena's tongue finds her again, teasing languidly across her folds before finding her clit and sucking hard. Myka's breath hitches, her head lolls back as she fights the nearly uncontrollable urge of her hips to buck against H.G's mouth.

"My blood approves," nails scrape down her side at the same time as deft fingers rise to tweak taut nipples, "and kisses are a better fate," teeth come out to play and Myka is sure the grip of her fingers wound through H.G's hair is at least a little painful now as they both let out a hiss in unison, "than wisdom." Helena has admitted that she enjoys the mingle of pain with her pleasure, and Myka has been too rough with lovers in the past: in so many ways they fit.

"Lady I swear by all flowers. Don't cry" as Helena drags her bottom lip along the bundle of nerves and blows gently Myka cannot this time control the jerk of her hips. The next time H.G's mouth is on her she can feel the smirk against her inner folds.

"-the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter, which says" Helena gently grasps her calf, lifting Myka's leg until it is draped over her right shoulder. The new angle allows for Helena to delve deeper inside her pushing nipping and tasting with even greater fervor, this and the fact that all her weight is now precariously on one leg causes Myka to falter once more in her oration. Her fingers skid along the edge of the words- grasping earnestly as she desperately seeks to discern the words she suspects are written in the white lights that dance on the back of her eyelids- but that was the point. That was the game.

Myka lets out a ragged gasp as Helena takes pity on her, the next verse reverberating against her slit as she speaks, "we are for each other; then..."

Her breaths are reduced to shallow pants, she's so close now... it's only by the grace of fingers sliding up and down her sides, grounding her, that she seizes the next words through the heady haze, "laugh, leaning back in my arms."

Her hips are rocking; she's given up controlling her thrusts. One hand still wound tight through Helena's hair, the other rises to her own, brushing back curls matted to sweat slickened skin. She cracks her eyes open, half-lidded as she dances across the brink of her release. She will not look down; she knows she is being watched. Myka knows the only thing Helena likes more than making her come is watching her as she falls over that rapturous precipice. And Myka knows if she looks down and sees those dark fathomless eyes she'll be done for, and she still has two lines left. To win she must finish before, well, before she finishes. Her thighs are tensing sporadically, her inner walls beginning to clench,

"For life's not a paragraph. And death," but suddenly there are three fingers deep and knowing and immediately hitting her g-spot with an unerring accuracy that would surprise her if it were anyone but H.G Wells perched between her thighs. Le petit mort sweeps over her, every sensitized nerve ending exploding at once, her eyes roll back, she can taste blood where she's bit too hard into her bottom lip, and with buckling knees she allows the gentle embrace of her lover to coax her to the floor.

When she finally comes back to herself, tear-blurred eyes take in Helena's face inches from her own, an expression inextricably both smug and awed that would take her breath away if she had any left. Helena leans forward gently taking one lip between both of hers and tracing an exquisitely slow line with her tongue on the inside of the malleable flesh. When she releases it she brushes their noses together as they breathe each other in, "And death?"

Myka crooks a lopsided grin, using the hand tangled through raven tresses to angle her the other woman's mouth the way she wants her. At last she finishes, an exhale against parted lips, "and death, I think is no parenthesis."

~~~~

The Poem used is by one of my favourite poets, E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first...

since feeling is first  
who pays any attention  
to the syntax of things  
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool  
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,  
and kisses are a better fate  
than wisdom  
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry  
\- the best gesture of my brain is less than  
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then  
laugh, leaning back in my arms  
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis


	2. Round 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena's Turn

She should have known better. Really. To confess to one Myka Ophelia Bering that she wanted to acquaint herself with the notable works of literature she'd missed during her time encased in bronze, it was foolish.

If Helena had told Peter she'd have probably received an absent nod or perhaps another attempt to introduce her to those graphic picture books that H.G staunchly refused to call novels. Claudia would have been better, while the young genius was more technologically inclined, Helena had spotted her curled into a corner with a book on more than one quiet afternoon at the B&B.

She'd been tempted to ask Arthur, for all their disagreements they actually held quite similar views on the world. And after her sacrifice in the timeline that had been unmade, he'd been easier to get along with, still gruff but without the harsh edge in his tone and the wariness in his gaze. Yet asking literary advice felt oddly personal, and she could not bring herself to do it.

So telling Myka had been the next logical option, but really, to tell the self-proclaimed bibliophile, daughter of a bookstore owner- not to mention her highly competitive lover who'd been losing one too many of their bedroom wordplay games- well, she'd brought this upon herself. She'd been given a list that managed to make Arthur's inventory lists look brief, and now Myka's favourite pastime was to prevent her from spending until Helena managed to discern her lover's 'author of the day.'

On this particular day the artificer barely makes it through the door of their shared bedroom before the game begins. The way Myka kisses is so very much like her: fervent yet controlled, dominating yet gentle, unpredictable yet inextricably laced with a sense of order to every thrust of tongue, angling of lips, and possessive gnaw of teeth into soft, malleable flesh. So many of the young agent's traits seem paradoxical, so it came as little surprise to H.G that the same proved true in times of passion.

Pressed firmly against the door by the supple and ever moving form of her lover, H.G takes a moment to realize her shirt has been ripped open. The scattering of buttons across the floor thrums in-tune to their shallow pants and groans. Not for the first time Helena finds herself wondering whether her colleagues would make note of her frequent shopping trips to sustain her wardrobe against Myka's (well, she wasn't really sure if it was impatience or if the woman just enjoyed ruining her shirts) actions, or whether they'd chalk it up to her Victorian sensibilities.

The thought is whisked away as Helena receives her first clue between nips along her collarbone, "I applied," teeth sink in, "I think," wet heat soothes reddening skin, "simply to demonstrate to myself," fingers slide her shirt off her shoulders to puddle at her feet, "that there was such a person," her bra is deftly removed and discarded before the line is finished, "as me."

Myka's tongue grazes across the bottom row of the shorter woman's teeth before she feels a warm tongue pressing back against her. Three guesses. She only gets three guesses before she loses, and Helena does so hate to lose. Although, if Myka can't think of a quote from one of her wrong guesses she gets an extra-of course they'd been playing this game for weeks and it has yet to happen.

Long fingers tighten in her hair and Helena's hips buck against her desire in reaction, her head is already swimming, and it is far too early in the game for her to be so out of sorts,

"Another."

Myka pulls away from lavishing her neck to reveal a crooked grin and look up at her through heavy lidded eyes. Movement ceases as they drink each other in. Eyes deliberately sweep across Myka's face, the delicate line of her jaw, the pleasing flush to her cheeks, full kiss-reddened lips, and pupil blown eyes of deep emerald specked with amber. As the writer sought to absorb it all through her erotic haze, she- not for the first time in the curly-haired woman's presence- found words to be wholly inadequate, both at describing her beauty and especially the feelings Myka was able to rouse in her.

Seconds and eons later they're moving again and H.G's simmering need churns to a full boil as she's roughly cupped through her trousers. Helena should have known better when Myka acquiesced to her wish without comment, popping open the button fly as she spoke, "Make love when you can. It's good for you."

H.G can't help the very unladylike snort that escapes her at the line, her eyes screw shut as Myka resumes her assault against the column of her throat, "is that really the quote?" Helena can feel the woman's nod against her as teeth and tongue sweep up to a particularly sensitive spot behind her ear. She gasps and grabs onto Myka's shoulders, her knees threatening to give under the onslaught of sensation, and then gasps anew realizing that the taller woman had managed to shed her shirt when her nails dig into warm flesh.

Silken curls are tickling the corner of her jaw and Myka's teeth are sinking into the shell of her ear and the whole thing is far too distracting, but that is, after all, the game. She finds her voice after a few moments; it's raspy and low and makes it devastatingly clear just how much of an effect Myka is having on her, but she takes small comfort in getting the words out without her voice breaking into one of the moans she's desperately fighting to keep in,

"Fitting, but hardly helpful darling."

With a quick peck to her parted lips, Myka starts kissing her way down, both fingers and lips purposefully skimming over Helena's heaving chest and wanting, hardened peaks. Helena's back arches, craving more. More skin on skin, more of that wicked tongue, more of nails and teeth and lips, more of everything because she cannot seem to get her fill of sensations.

She holds her breath as Myka's tongue dips into her bellybutton; revolving once, twice, before providing her next clue, "Round and round and round we spin, with feet of lead and wings of tin." The words barely begin to penetrate her lust-addled mind before her lover moves lower to bite down on the junction where Helena's hip and thigh meet as she slowly pushes her trousers down to join her ruined shirt.

Myka's tongue is working every inch, every curve, every little detail and Helena's hands reach above her head to grab something, anything- failing and instead claw down leaving deep grooves in stained pine as her hips buck once more.

"Dave Eggers" It's her first guess, and she's fairly sure it's incorrect; not that it doesn't align with the information she's been given, but she rarely gets it right on the first try.

Myka presses hot open-mouthed kisses just above the hem of her underwear, just above where Helena wants her most. The kneeling woman blows gently against her as she answers and a shudder racks through Helena as she forces her mind to listen,

"Lovely choice, but no. Although they both share the same postmodern sensibility and have the ability to find the comedy within the tragedy." Myka's commentary usually hurts more than helps, it only helps her if she can understand the often extremely contemporary and esoteric jargon, and Myka knows full well how unfairly attractive H.G finds her when she puts that methodical mind to use.

"And the quote?" Fingers dip under lace and Helena can see her mind working, words flickering in the shadows behind her eyes, not trying to recall a passage but rather sorting through a collection of them trying to discern the one most apt for the moment. Her fingers delve into riotous curls as she feels her underwear being dragged achingly slowly down her long legs.

Head turned skyward, eyes threatening to roll back in their sockets at her excruciating need and anticipation, at the fire that's tickling her every nerve ending, whispering the promise of more. Only when Helena feels the covetous gaze of her lover does she look down. Myka wants to watch her take in her words, and Helena's breath catches as she does,

"I will not wait to love as best as I can. We thought we were young and that there would be time to love well sometime in the future. This is a terrible way to think. It is no way to live, to wait to love."

Helena's mouth opens and closes, and again, throat suddenly dry. Myka is staring up at her, thumbs stroking tight circles along her inner thighs, waiting. She knows Myka loves her, and she's certain Myka knows the same is true for her, no one could survive the journey they had if love weren't involved...but they hadn't said it. Truly, Myka hadn't exactly said it, but to do so through the words of another was so like the woman that her heart ached all the more for it.

"H.G. Wells speechless. That's a sight." Her tone is light, her grin pleased, but there's vulnerability in her eyes, rawness in the way the younger woman clings to her thighs. Cradling her face in her hands, H.G pulls Myka to her feet and starts to walk them away from the door and to the bed.

Their tongues dance and Helena tightens fingers ever deeper into her curls as she tries to crawl her way inside the taller woman, stroke her soul from the inside out. She's supposed to be passive in this game, but as the words refuse to come at her bidding, she does the next best thing. Each nip, lick and caress is met with equal fervor and Helena knows she's understood, which is why she allows Myka to reverse their positions and push her down onto the bed, regaining control.

As her back hits the sheets, Myka's already hovering over her, propped up on one elbow, curls falling around her face, tickling her collarbone. The hand not braced by Helena's head slides down between the valley of her breasts until it meets wet heat. She's already so wet, so close, that she can feel moisture coating the inside of her thighs. Lowering until her lips are at her ear, Myka whispers low and hoarse as she slips one finger inside,

"And I asked myself about the present - how wide it was, how deep it was," another finger joins the first but have yet to move, "how much was mine to keep." Teeth dig into the junction where her neck and shoulder meet as the fingers begin to curl. Helena lets out a hiss and pulls at the hair wrapped around her fingers.

She arches, trying to pull her in deeper, to make her move her hand, but Myka doesn't. She's working her way down her chest now, and Helena lets go of her hair, reaching blindly above her head until her fingers manage to brace themselves against the headboard. When Myka's lips finally wrap around a nipple, she curls her fingers against Helena's g-spot, eliciting a deep guttural moan. Finally Myka takes up a languid pace, and Helena eagerly moves her hips to meet it.

She sucks Helena's other nipple into her mouth and bites down as she rolls the heel of her hand against the her clit, pressing hard against the bundle of nerves and causing Helena to cry out in pleasure as her body rocks down into the contact.

"Another." Her knuckles are white against the headboard; her back is arching to thrust her chest against her lover's mouth, her hips ceaselessly moving, and through it all H.G's not sure if this plea is for another hint or another finger inside her. Luckily she's granted both,

"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."

She's clinging desperately now to the woman above her, barely holding onto the tension that is about to snap within her. Just as she feels her walls begin to clench and the slight quiver in her thigh, the pace of Myka's thrusts slow, and she cannot help the frustrated whimper that slips through her parted lips. Myka is far too attentive of a lover to let her accidently slip over that edge before the game is over. She had this proven to her without a shadow of a doubt on one particular afternoon when Helena was kept on the brink of orgasm for three hours before she found herself begging for a release that ended up being more pain than pleasure.

"Theodore Sturgeon."She knows she's wrong before Myka answers, by the fact that her fingers are still moving with grievous leisure. She recites Sturgeon's words against Helena's mouth,

"The air was heavy and sweet; it lay upon lips until they parted," the heel of her hand rolls again against her nigh over sensitized clit, "pressed them until they smiled," another unerring thrust against her g-spot, "entered boldly to beat in the throat like a second heart." And H.G's heart is thudding loudly in her head, nearly obscuring the last line that escapes in a warm caress against her eyelids, "It was air with a puzzle to it, for it was still and full of the colors of dream."

"Nope," her lips pop at the end of the unneeded clarification as Myka pushes again against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, "although they share an affinity for the genre you engendered." Now that's a clue H.G can work with, and she finds herself wishing it'd been her first guess for any coherency of thought is becoming increasingly difficult as Myka again picks up her pace and drives into her with mounting zeal. She'd paid particular attention to those authors that delved into the bizarre and fantastical, something that hadn't had a name in her time but she'd come to know as Science Fiction.

"One more." Her mind is rolling through the names she knows apply, looking for links, for familiarity from her given clues. A few names stand out. She's close now. Helena feels a smirk blossom along the line of her jaw,

"I don't know, I've given you plenty of hints already."

She's been gliding along the edge of her release long enough for desperation to take hold, not enough to admit defeat, but certainly enough to beg, "Please," her voice breaks over the word, "I'm so close."

She means she's on the brink of orgasm and she means the author's name is within her grasp. And she means for Myka to push her fingers just a little bit further and faster and give her just one more quote for she really isn't sure whether it would be the low, inciting caress of her voice against her skin or the firm knowing strokes of her fingers that would send her over first. The breathy plea is met with a shudder down Myka's spine, and Helena fights the urge to grin at the reaction for she knows Myka is not above punishing her for being smug.

"So it Goes." It wasn't much, in fact, it was hardly anything at all, but the words slide down her spine as deliberate fingers curl within her, and there's a fire blazing low in her gut, and her thighs are trembling, and white lights flash behind tightly closed lids and call it an epiphany or skill or a stroke of luck, but it was enough.

"Kurt...Vonnegut!" she screams the name, and this is not fireworks, or waves crashing or jumping off a cliff. No. This is atomic bombs, meeting an earthquake and a volcano erupting and the wrath of Gods unleashed. It is everything and everywhere; every colour, taste and smell, mixing together into an indistinguishable haze of sensation. It spans a time that encompassed her stay in bronze and it is over far too soon.

Eyes strain to open and find Myka propped up on her right elbow, trailing her index finger up and down the length of Helena's arm. She twiddles her fingers just to ensure she can and turns to face her. But Myka's not looking at her, she's following the seemingly aimless trail of her finger with rapt attention, up and down, and back again.

"I love you too." She isn't sure how she knows this is what her lover needs to hear, is waiting to hear, but so much of their relationship has escaped her ability to reason that she's stopped questioning it, mostly.

Seeing the small quirk of the other woman's mouth tells her she's right, and some underlying tension unfurls within her. She's never been good with relationships; she'd never even been in love before Myka, not really, not a love like this. And She finds being right about this is far more gratifying than winning the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to add more...but I've done poetry and I've done prose...I need a new Idea. I'd love your feedback on the fic and any ideas about their next game. :)


End file.
